Crime Zero (21 page)

"I understand that many of you will have concerns about this bold decision to test a radical therapy outside normal channels. But hard crime requires hard choices. Of course there were risks, but the risks of doing nothing were far greater. Crime has become so entrenched that we believed drastic action was required--not political rhetoric or posturing but hard, decisive deeds.

"This project wasn't undertaken lightly. Rigorous research involving the best available minds was conducted over a period spanning almost a decade. This research was conducted on the most intractable violent criminals who have already forfeited their right to live in normal society. The results show that far from being inhumane, punishing their old life, we have given them a new one.

"I believe in free will. It is my firm conviction that genes only predispose us to behave in a certain way by virtue of our hormones and the chemicals in our brains; ultimately we consciously decide what we do. We must still all take full responsibility for our actions. But this therapy stacks the odds in favor of a subject's being better able to cope with inappropriate aggressive responses. It reawakens his conscience, allowing him to decide to walk away from a senseless fight, avoid initiating a brutal attack, or curb his base urge to rape a defenseless woman.

"Let me share a vision with you, a vision for America: With this therapy violent men will be freed to channel their energies into more productive areas that benefit society, rather than undermine it. Imagine such a society where all convicted criminals are given this treatment, where the majority of offenders can rediscover their better selves. Creating a more productive, tolerant, kinder world. Imagine it. A kinder, stronger America. Your America."

Weiss raised her right hand and pointed directly at the camera. "I tell you now, if I am elected President on Tuesday, I will make this dream into a reality."

Decker watched as Pamela Weiss paused for a moment, staring at the camera with just the right look of concern and warmth. She was doing this thing and making it plausible, even commendable. The beer suddenly tasted sour in his mouth.

"Don't they ever learn?" shouted Matty suddenly.

Luke whipped around at the sound of his angry voice. He had never seen his mild grandfather so enraged before. His face was red, the veins standing out on his temple. "What's wrong, Gramps?"

"What's wrong? You've just heard what that woman's been saying and you ask me what's wrong? They are judging people by their genes and trying to change them."

Decker found it hard to match Matty's anger. "They're only going to give the drug to convicted criminals."

"But that's just the start. First they give this drug to change the genes of criminals. Then they decide to give it to those young people who perhaps have genes they don't like, before they have done anything wrong. Because they might do something wrong. Soon they will separate those with good genes from those with bad, ignoring the fact that people choose to do evil. I remember when the Nazis first began to separate us. They made us wear the Star of David on our jackets so that they could tell who we were. Not humans. Not people like them. But Jews. Luke, we are more than our genes. You are more than your genes. Hasn't anybody learned anything?"

"But this is different, Gramps."

"Is it? What if they decide that you have the genes of Karl Axelman in you and are therefore a potential criminal who should be 'treated'?"

Decker couldn't answer that. He put the beer down on the table beside him.

"Yes, my fellow Americans, with the support of President Burbank I have taken risks and challenged conventional procedures. But I firmly believe that what America needs now more than ever is a leader. Someone who will serve the people, not by slavishly following changing opinions but by taking tough decisions and leading them to a better, more peaceful tomorrow. If you share this vision, then vote for me on Tuesday so that together we can reawaken the conscience of America."

Even before Weiss finished uttering the last syllable of her speech, the crowd on TV erupted in applause. Decker turned to watch his grandfather shaking his head in disbelief. At that moment the door opened and Rhoda walked into the room. "Luke," she said handing him a brown envelope, "this came in the mail for you."

"Thanks."

Tearing open the buff envelope, he found a computer disc and a scribbled note inside. To his surprise it was from Kathy Kerr:

Luke, we've got to talk.

The samples in one of the bags you gave me match the DNA profile of a killer on the FBI database, Karl Axelman. Except there are some subtle, lethal differences, which might be connected to my work on a project called Conscience.

What's going on, Luke? You must suspect something; otherwise you wouldn't have asked me to analyze the samples instead of using the FBI labs. I've enclosed a computer disc for safekeeping. It includes a copy of Karl Axelman's original genome and his modified one taken from the samples in your evidence bag. But don't worry, I should be seeing you before you receive this. I guess this is just a precaution.

We really need to talk. This is scary.

Kathy

Decker frowned as he read the note, unsure what to make of it. He picked up the disc and placed it on the coffee table. She said she would be here before the disc. But she wasn't. She also said that Axelman's genes had been changed.

Could that explain his physical appearance, the hair loss, and the acne? Could it explain his sudden remorse and radically different personality? Did it also explain why Director Naylor had been so interested in what Decker might or might not have found out from Axelman?

He looked up again at the TV to the closing shots of the Watts rally. Pamela Weiss stood triumphant, arms raised. FBI Director Naylor stood close to her, staring out across the crowds, a look of cool satisfaction on her face. Had Axelman been one of the criminals tested in the unauthorized Conscience trials and had something gone wrong? Something that had been covered up?

"What is it, Luke?" Matty asked.

"I'm not sure yet," he said. He rose from the couch, went for his jacket, and retrieved his wallet. When he got Kathy's card, he picked up the phone and dialed her number at Stanford. But there was no answer. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He had kept it turned off since he'd last spoken with her. Perhaps she'd left him a message.

Sitting forward on the couch, he replayed the messages. Matty rose from his chair and came to sit next to him. Kathy had left a message, but it sounded much the same as her scribbled note. Apart from a couple of old messages from the bureau, there was only one other voice mail and that had such poor sound quality Luke almost dismissed it.

"Play that again," said Matty suddenly, his head cocked to one side as if listening to a musical instrument. "Can you turn it up? I heard voices. One sounded frightened."

Luke turned up the volume and held his ear closer to the phone. Matty was right. A woman's voice was audible now. It was muffled, but Luke knew it was Kathy's. "What do you want?" she said, her normally soft Scottish lilt brittle with shock.

"Just to keep you safe and silent for a while," said a distinctive nasal male voice Decker also recognized but couldn't place.

"Why?" Kathy shouted. "This is something to do with Project Conscience, isn't it?"

Decker heard the man again. "All I've been told is that you're overstressed and are likely to say things you may regret. We're going to take you somewhere you can calm down, somewhere you can have peace and quiet." He was sure he'd heard that voice before.

There were sounds of interference or a scuffle.

"Keep that damn needle away from me, you bastard."

The message stopped then as it reached the end of recording time, but Decker had heard enough.

"Is she a friend of yours?" asked Matty.

"Not exactly," Decker replied, still trying to place the voice. Then he thought of Director Naylor, and he knew whom the nasal voice belonged to. It was someone who kept his nose stuck up the FBI director's ass: Assistant Director William Jackson, Naylor's senior Rottweiler in the bureau. Madeline Naylor had to be behind Kathy's abduction; Jackson wouldn't scratch his own balls without clearance from her. But why did Naylor want Kathy Kerr out of the way? It must be serious for Jackson to get personally involved and not just leave it to his goons.

Kathy was right; they did need to talk. Holding the phone up to his ear, Decker played the message back again, this time listening to exactly what Jackson said: ". . . take you somewhere you can calm down, somewhere you can have peace and quiet."

Decker's first thought was a bureau safe house. He scanned his memory, remembering all the ones he knew near San Francisco. They were definitely options, but even safe houses were manned and maintained. Naylor would want as few people as possible to know about Kathy's abduction. But it had to be near San Francisco; a long journey would risk discovery. Where was there a discreet institution, controlled by the bureau, that could accommodate an individual in secrecy? Somewhere that guaranteed peace and quiet?

Suddenly it came to him. The perfect place. Filled with dark memories, Decker pressed a preset number on the phone and waited for the dial tone. The phone line clicked in his ear, and he heard a polite, professional voice greet him.

"Hello," he replied, "my name is Special Agent Luke Decker. You should have me on your books. I need an urgent appointment."

"What are you going to do?" asked Matty.

Decker shrugged with a casualness he didn't feel. "Find her and get her out, of course."

Chapter 19.

The Sanctuary, East of Modesto, California. Saturday, November 1, 11:17 A.M.

"As far as I'm aware, no one's been admitted in the last three days. Certainly not to the secure wing, Luke."

Dr. Sarah Quirke spoke softly with the trace of a Welsh accent as she sat at her desk in the main building of the Sanctuary. She was a petite woman in her late forties, with auburn hair and a round face; her kind eyes frowned with concern behind elegant spectacles. Behind her, half the wall of the office was a vast picture window through which Decker could see the distant purple haze of the High Sierra etched against a faultless blue sky. Sunlight flooded through the glass, highlighting the copper in Dr. Quirke's hair and bathing the wooden desk and chairs in a warm, honeyed light. His sessions with Dr. Quirke in her office were the only positive memories Decker had of his four-week stay here after his mother died.

"Luke, what's this all about? I came in on a Saturday only because you said you needed an urgent checkup although in my opinion, you're saner than most of the doctors here. But all you seem interested in are patient admissions to the secure rooms. You know full well that this is an FBI-funded retreat for agents with stress-related difficulties. We deal in counseling and therapy for temporary mental disturbances and dependencies, not insanity. We have only two secure rooms, and those are for short-term emergencies. It's rare for them to be used at all. So tell me, Luke, what exactly are you after?"

Decker sat back in his chair and rubbed his temples. He didn't like coming back here, and it wasn't just because of the memories. If, as he suspected, Kathy had been abducted and was being held in the Sanctuary, then somebody very senior had to be involved, and that meant Decker was exposing himself just by being here. He had approached Dr. Quirke only because he trusted her absolutely. "Sarah, you probably know me as well as anyone, so please don't be alarmed. Something very strange is going on that I need to investigate. But the last thing I want to do is involve you. Trust me, it's safer this way. All I want to know is, have you a record of all the inmates and their rooms?"

Quirke frowned. It was clear that although his trust of her was absolute, it wasn't entirely reciprocated.

"I don't want to know any names," he told her. "I just want to know if there's anybody in the secure wing."

She paused for a while longer and then gave a small nod. "All right," she said, looking at the computer screen on her desk as she tapped on the keyboard. "I've got all the patients on my screen, and as I said, no one new has come in over the last three days. As for the secure rooms in the garden wing, they haven't been used for three and a half months. The last time was when a patient became violent and had to be restrained overnight in room A."

"So as far as you are concerned, there's nobody in any of the rooms now?"

"Correct."

"Who physically checks them?"

"No one really, because they're usually empty. Dr. Peters checks them occasionally."

Decker nodded, remembering the gray-haired doctor. They had never met, but Decker had often seen him around the place when he stayed here, and he knew the doctor's reputation. Peters was more an administrator than a medic. He was a drab career man who worked for the FBI first and the patients second. "Does he still manage the place, making